


let me change my words, show me where it hurts

by christinaapplegay



Category: Dead To Me (TV)
Genre: F/F, Friendship/Love, Post Seasons 1 + 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:40:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24343654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinaapplegay/pseuds/christinaapplegay
Summary: Judy kinda, sorta, vows to herself that Jen’s going to feel beautiful, even if it takes some time (even if it takes a lifetime).
Relationships: Judy Hale/Jen Harding
Comments: 27
Kudos: 193





	let me change my words, show me where it hurts

**Author's Note:**

> we are ignoring ben and any possible future legal troubles bc well you know
> 
> the title is from the song 'a lot’s gonna change' by weyes blood

_He made me feel so disgusting._

It echoes inside Judy's mind for months. 

How Jen sobs, her face red, puffy, her voice hoarse in the way it is when trying not to cry. And Jen, there, curled in a lawn chair, uncomfortably vulnerable in a way Judy has never seen her, hasn’t seen her since, really, which she's happy about because it makes her think they’re doing something right, that they’re healing, and really living. And the following events Judy will not allow herself to dwell too much on, Judy confessing to Jen, they’re long gone.

And when Judy thinks about the catalyst of Jen’s _he made me feel so disgusting_ admission, Charlie leaving (Judy doesn’t hold it against him), reminding Jen of her and Ted’s fight, how it was a result of Jen’s pent up anger, how it was not being touched, desired, for so long. How Jen had to go through surgery such as a double mastectomy, only to have the one person Jen was supposed to rely on for comfort, trust, affection, distance himself, create this divide, one that stood for pure disgust, one that indirectly told Jen _you’ve failed me_ … Judy’s (almost) glad he’s dead. 

It’s not something she’s going to tell her new therapist (or anyone, actually), as that would obviously not go over well, but it’s something she often feels when she catches Jen looking at her reflection, whether it’s a car window, a mirror, the black screen of her phone, and she squints her eyes at herself, frowns slightly, always shakes her head as if she cannot believe _that’s_ what she’s looking at. 

Judy hates it, hates that Jen hates herself. She wishes Jen would love herself more, fiercely and completely, but she knows it’s not as simple as that. She knows that wishing can be pointless. Judy knows telling someone they're beautiful doesn’t change the fact that they think they’re not. She just wishes it could. 

Time passes, of course, and it’s months later, months after they’re in a car accident that thank God all they exit with is scrapes and bruises and occasional headaches, and Jen is happy, actually happy. Judy knows she is; it’s in her way of moving now, not as tense, more involved, totally engaged with Henry and Charlie. Jen’s doing this weird form of hot yoga daily ( _yoga_ , Judy thinks, _Jen does_ _yoga now_ ) where you get to scream at the end of it, and they keep on keepin’ on because what else do you do when you and your best friend have killed each other’s partners other than live together and raise one-half of that duo's babies. 

No one really questions it (not like they have an abundance of people in their lives _to_ question it), especially Henry and Charlie. They don’t seem to care that she and their mom sit snug, or that they embrace often, or even that they start referring to themselves as a family. They know she and Jen share a room now, and when Henry asks why they sleep in the same bed one morning over breakfast, gnawing on a strip of bacon, they look at each other from across the counter, Judy pausing washing a cup, Jen pausing scanning emails, eyes wide, knowing they should have practiced what to say. 

The truth is, _they_ don’t even know why. They just do. It’s comforting, for both of them. And Judy certainly does not mind the occasional cuddling factor. She kind of loves that Jen tends to be the little spoon. 

They tell Henry that sometimes it’s nice to have someone to fall asleep with, and Henry takes it as truth, agreeing that without his stuffed animals, it definitely is hard to sleep. 

Judy’s devising of a plan begins sorta spontaneously when things aren’t yet normal (Jen often says, mostly paired with wine, _what the fuck is normal?)_ , but things aren’t up in flames every day of their lives, anymore, and in fact, they have nearly perfected a routine. They wake up, make breakfast, take the boys to school, part ways for work, have a call at lunch, whoever can pick the boys up does, they go home after work, have family dinner, spend time with the boys, drink whatever liquor they have, watch _The Facts of Life,_ then, go to bed. It’s quite something, and it’s exactly what Judy wants (she’s pretty sure Jen wants it just as much). 

For months, Judy thinks of Jen and how she feels undesirable. For months, she wants to do something about it. And for months, she doesn’t really know what to do. She doesn’t want to just tell Jen she thinks she’s beautiful, she wants her to know it, without a second thought, not because Judy just states it like it’s a news headline. 

It’s mainly because it’s late one night and they’re both up, but quiet, trying to sleep, neither able. Jen’s tucked into Judy, a spooning position they’ve taken to. Judy has her arm protectively over Jen, hand resting near the top of Jen’s stomach, her cheek resting against Jen’s shoulder blade, and she reminds herself that she’s lucky to have Jen and the boys and their family because it all could have turned out so wildly different. 

It’s Jen suddenly rolling over, and into her, no words accompanying. Judy easily adjusts to the position, their foreheads almost touching, Jen’s arms folded into herself, Judy resting her right arm across Jen until she realizes Jen is crying, feels her own shirt becoming damp, and pulls back. 

“Jen?”

There’s no answer, so Judy detangles, softly says “Jen,” as she looks at her in the dim light, barely able to see tears, but knowing they are there. 

“Just ignore it," Jen says, whispering, and it gets caught in her throat and she coughs. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Judy says, moving to prop herself up. It's something like a shot to the heart when Jen sniffles, sighing shakily, harshly. 

“It’s too hard to talk about," she barely says, and so Judy says, “Hey, you can tell me.”

“Judy, _please_.” And Judy’s learning not to push Jen. She wants Jen to share with her, but not if she feels entirely uncomfortable. It’s unfair to expect Jen to openly share every thought she has. (That’s what her therapist says.) 

“Okay,” Judy says, hushed. She lies back down, wraps her arms around Jen, and lets her cry, hoping Jen will share on her own terms, or at least fall asleep. 

It takes a while, but Jen calms, and Judy’s on the verge of sleep, at the point where she’s nearly drifted off, that when Jen says, “I got called old today,” Judy registers it, but doesn’t reply. Then, when she realizes she hasn’t replied, and Jen shifts away, she spits out, “Oh,” and pulls her back in. 

“Old?” Judy says, her arm wrapped up and around Jen, hand squeezing her shoulder.

“Old. By a fuckin’ kid,” Jen says, wiping at her eyes, and Judy has a feeling it’s about more than just what this is on the surface. Judy’s sure it circles back to self-image. 

“Well, kids say… whatever,” Judy says, and she moves her arm further up and places her hand on Jen’s head. When Jen does this to her, it’s comforting. “I, for one, think you’re heaven on a stick.” 

Jen laughs like she doesn’t believe it. Judy knows she doesn’t believe it. 

"What happened?" Judy sits back up. She can feel a slight headache but if Jen is going to share, she feels like that wins over eyestrain. 

Jen rolls over onto her back, wiping at her face. "I don't care if he's nine, the kids an asshole."

Judy laughs lightly, and Jen kinda chuckles. "Well, what's the crime?"

"It's stupid, I shouldn't even care." Jen stares up at the ceiling. It’s dark, lit only by a little salt lamp Judy placed on her side table, and Judy offers to turn a light on but Jen shoots her down. 

"I was picking up Henry from school," Jen says, surprising Judy with how quickly she begins, and Judy loves the way Jen's voice softens at the mention of her son's name, "and he was with a friend, the little fucker, waiting at a lunch table where I usually meet him, and when I came up to Henry, he told his friend he had to go 'cause his moms here, and then the kid flat out says, "that's your mom? she's soooo old," Jen says, tone mocking, "as if it's my fault I had Henry mid-30s, and his mom was like, what, fuckin' what, 12-years-old when she had him."

"God, yeah, kids just... say shit," Judy says, and before she can say anything else, Jen is sitting up, saying, "The kid's mom is like, not even 30. Of course, she fuckin' looks better than me."

"Oh, hey, c'mon now," Judy says, firmly, "you are like, a goddess, Jen," and Jen only rolls her eyes. Judy decides she'll defy Jen, and turn the lamp on. This time, Jen doesn't stop her, and it nearly makes Judy cry to see Jen crying. Judy cries when other people cry, it just happens. 

Judy pushes Jen’s hair back so it’s out of her face, she wipes her tears, and Jen closes her eyes when Judy does so, and there’s an ache in Judy's chest that tells her she loves Jen. Actually, fully, loves her. Maybe even is _in_ love, which she knows, but the reminder is full force and she’s tired, and tenfold in sensitivity, so she wants it to stop immediately. 

But it’s not going to. 

“I'm just so tired of the crying. I feel like I've cried so much in the last year, I'm tired of feeling so much all the time. It fucking sucks,” Jen says, all at once. Then, she states, “This is really hard for me to say.” 

“I’m all ears," Judy says, her hand finding it's place atop Jen's. 

Jen groans, like she's trying to just force her words out. “I know I’ve said it before but I just feel so – so... just... gross." 

“Oh, Jen..." Judy's gearing up to launch into compliment hour when Jen stops her, says, “I’m not – _no,_ Judy, please don’t, that’s what I didn’t fucking want. I don’t want sympathy, I just want to share without strings attached. And it's so fucking dumb because what the fuck does it matter?"

“Okay,” Judy says. “I’m sorry,” they end up saying at the same time, share a look, so Judy then says, “Go on, only if you want.” 

“That’s it,” Jen says, pointedly, and Judy cannot discern her tone, but it’s close to as if she’s throwing in the towel. 

“Well, thank you for sharing," Judy says, hoping Jen knows she means it. 

“Hm,” Jen makes, she lies back down, "thank you for listening," and Judy doesn’t miss the way Jen turns her back to her but scoots into her attempting to resume one of their previous positions. So, Judy resumes, too. 

It’s the same pattern; Jen calms, Judy’s on the verge of sleep – but this time, Jen falls asleep, and Judy’s awake thinking of ways she can help Jen feel good about herself without it being _you’re beautiful, you look nice, that’s a pretty dress, what a sexy blazer._ It needs to be _not_ based on physical compliments, it needs to be about Jen as a person. And then once Jen begins to believe it, it can be compliments. Judy likes giving compliments. 

So, it goes like this: 

For the next however many days, as they all begin to blend as one, and it turns into one long life with Jen and Henry and Charlie, Judy begins by telling Jen something she did was impressive. She compliments the new curtains in their room, tells Jen she has an eye for design; it’s all in an attempt to boost her real estate ego, it makes her smile and Judy notices she holds herself a little higher for the rest of the day. 

Jen cannot cook, never follows recipes, is always skipping a step or an ingredient or forgetting to turn the oven on, but when she does, when Jen cooks breakfast on a Saturday or cooks dinner on a random weeknight, Judy, beforehand, asks the boys to be extra nice about their mom’s meal. She doesn’t bribe them (she promises pizza, but it’s not a _bribe),_ and she asks them to compliment it, but subtly. Don’t lie, if it’s not good, don’t say it’s good, but _at least_ thank her, show her you care. Eventually, they reach a point where Judy doesn’t even have to ask, they just thank their mom and say how good it is and Judy doesn't know if it’s the boys just continuing to be nice, because they are _good_ kids, or if Jen’s cooking improves, which she isn’t sure it has, because, well, if she’s honest, Jen still gets angry when water takes a while to boil and pasta usually turns out al dente when no one likes al dente, but, still, cooking is a way to show love, so if Jen shows them love, love needs to be shown back. It is what Judy tells the boys over an ice cream date she takes them on to give Jen a break after a tediously long day at work. 

Judy’s not totally sure if these things will in the long run make Jen feel beautiful, but she keeps going with it, finding new aspects of Jen to praise. Judy notices that Jen is complimenting her, too, and quite a lot and they almost morph into a couple that cannot stop talking about how great the other is, and Judy only keeps on. At night, in bed, if Jen says something Judy thinks is smart, she tells her; says, _wow, I’ve never thought of it like that,_ and to be clear she’s not lying, this praise is only spoken when it’s genuine when Judy really is impressed by something Jen says; she’s never going to lie to Jen again as long as she can help herself. 

The physical compliments almost seem like insults to Jen, like when Jen’s picking out an outfit in the morning and Judy tells her she likes that green blazer, how it brings out her eyes, Jen always seems like she thinks Judy’s only saying that, and she kind of writes it off, every time. If, or when, they go out, though Judy wants to refrain from overly excessive compliments she can't, not really, not when Jen looks the way she does, it’s like, impossible not to tell her how good she looks. 

And Judy kinda always hopes that if they go for a drink Jen will get hit on because maybe it really is just the need to think someone sees you as sexy, but she also feels like if someone other than her tells Jen she looks good, if someone other than her has their hand on Jen’s lower back, it will hurt, and she thinks she’ll be jealous, but she never seems to have to go through that because Jen never strays, and only sinks into their embraces. 

Judy notices little changes in Jen, like in mundane activities. When they go to the grocery, she’s less likely to make sure she’s got makeup on, it’s like she doesn’t rely on it so much. It’s something Judy catches on to and uses. She tells Jen she likes the scar she has on her eyebrow, likes that it shows she’s gone through something and lived (likes all scars Jen has and will ever have). And Judy will mention Jen’s dark circles if she has them, how she likes them, how they give Jen character, which doesn’t fly the first time. Jen gets offended (if Judy looks back, understandable), but still, overall, Jen seems less likely to self-sabotage. 

It’s then Judy kinda, sorta, vows to herself that Jen’s going to feel beautiful, even if it takes some time (even if it takes a lifetime). 

Judy knows Jen has issues surrounding intimacy, and why wouldn’t she, it’s why Judy forces herself to not be offended if Jen ever pulls away, wants alone time, needs space, doesn’t fall asleep cuddling. It’s why when Jen cries about anything ever at all Judy allows for space even though she craves closeness because Jen will curl into her when she’s ready (and the same for Judy, it’s a paradigm they construct). There is something about letting someone cry, openly, fully, on you, in your embrace that allows for a subset of intimacy neither have known. And Judy hopes, desperately at this point, that allowing Jen this, this aim at no shame, helps her feel beautiful. 

And Judy realizes that maybe beautiful just means valuable. She still wants Jen to feel both. Jen still looks at herself in the mirror and looks a little sad, like she’s off somewhere imagining it better, but it lessens, and that’s the goal, and Judy knows she has to keep loving Jen, knows she couldn't stop if she tried. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading. ♡


End file.
